


The Force Shall Free Us

by Lucem_Tenebrae



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Bizarro World, Evil Jedi, F/M, Good Sith, Jar Jar is in here, Mandalore, Trust me it's better than it sounds, but not like you think...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucem_Tenebrae/pseuds/Lucem_Tenebrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate world, the brave Sith Chevaliers stand as the defenders of freedom, and the guardians of the Interstellar Commonwealth. But from the shadows, the bright flame of the cruel Jedi grows, plotting the downfall of their enemies. From Episode I to VI, a total AU rewrite of the Star Wars Trilogies! Trust me, it's cooler than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there everyone! Firstly, yes, yes, I know, I need to update Price of Freedom. Regardless, I am also posting this! So, time for my first actual Star Wars fanfic, and it will be none other than an in depth tale of a Star Wars AU. Now this story is un-beta'd, and will likely be updated sporadically; however, I hope you will join me for the ride. As a last note, bare in mind that this AU will require some ignoring of butterflies (and the aid of the almighty Alien Space Bats) to get to the start point, although I will be incorporating some into the story, and I hope not to have to ignore too many as I, like many people, find that frustrating (I'm looking at you S.M. Stirling).
> 
> This will be a long series, and I plan to cover a timeline stretching all 6 (soon to be 7) films.
> 
> Short, I know, but I suppose I wanted to do a teaser for now. Thoughts? At all interested? Do you want to know more? Please Review and/or Comment!
> 
> Disclaimer: While the AU is mine, the characters, setting, brand, etc... Are not mine, but instead belong to Disney and (nominally) George Lucas and his affiliates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet our heroes, and see how different their lives are from the stories we know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, there everyone! Firstly, yes, yes, I know, I need to update Price of Freedom. Regardless, I am also posting this! So, time for my first actual Star Wars fanfic, and it will be none other than an in depth tale of a Star Wars AU. Now this story is un-beta'd, and will likely be updated sporadically; however, I hope you will join me for the ride. As a last note, bare in mind that this AU will require some ignoring of butterflies (and the aid of the almighty Alien Space Bats) to get to the start point, although I will be incorporating some into the story, and I hope not to have to ignore too many as I, like many people, find that frustrating (I'm looking at you S.M. Stirling).
> 
> This will be a long series, and I plan to cover a timeline stretching all 6 (soon to be 7) films.
> 
> Disclaimer: While the AU is mine, the characters, setting, brand, etc... Are not mine, but instead belong to Disney and (nominally) George Lucas and his affiliates

* * *

 

**EPISODE I: THE ETHEREAL THREAT**

 

* * *

 

 

**Turmoil has engulfed the INTERSTELLAR COMMONWEALTH. The representation of ideologically radical outlying STAR SYSTEMS is in dispute.**

**Hoping to resolve the matter with a blockade of DEADLY BATTLESHIPS, the conservative DOMINION OF ALDERAAN has stopped all commerce to the newly represented planet of MANDALORE.**

**While the INTERSTELLAR DELEGATION of the Commonwealth endlessly debates this alarming chain of events, the ARCH PREMIER has secretly dispatched two SITH CHEVALIERS, the guardians of FREEDOM and SELF-DETERMINATION in the galaxy, to settle the conflict...**

* * *

 

"Sir, I am unsure of this. Should the Delegation find out that we invaded without their consent, the reperc--"

"I shall deal with any possible repercussions. We must stand strong, my friend. The Force is guiding us to bring peace and stability. That can never be achieved with rogue states such as Mandalore running the government."

"...I understand. I will not fail."

"May the Force be with you, old friend."

"And you as well." The button pressed with excessive force, Prince Bail Organa terminated the transmission, only to slam his fist onto the console of the holoprojector. "Damn it...I pray he's right," came Bail's quiet mutter.

In their years together, Pentor Rieekan had not seen the Viceroy so torn; always had the man been one of conviction, one who took action with resolute belief, right or wrong. Pentor cleared his throat, almost afraid to ask the question required. "Your highness? What should I tell the men?"

Turning towards the admiral, Bail hesitated for a brief moment. "Inform the men," he began, pausing to sigh, "to prepare for an invasion within the next few days. It is time for Alderaan to save the Commonwealth."  

**|-o-|**

"My lord, why were Sith sent to settle an issue of commerce?" the young human quietly asked as he lay awake in his bunk. The _Tenebrosity VII_ was an agile vessel, but not one designed for comfort. How he ached for the Stronghold upon Coruscant, it's beds actually filled with stuffing rather than the starchy, cardboard-like substance his poor spine was pressed against.

"It is more than that, my apprentice," replied the (formerly) meditating older man on the floor. A large set of heavy durasteel components was laid out before him, and with one more deep breath, Lord Qui-gon Jinn of the Sith, better known as Darth Niisen, finished infusing his armor. "Mandalore's integration as a voting member of the Commonwealth was not a popular decision, and it has sparked the want for other tributary systems to petition for representation. If Mandalore can be put into submission, it will halt those petitions, and those that go through will be much easier for older systems to influence and control."

"Control? But the Commonwealth is about choice and free will," countered the apprentice, turning in his bunk, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Politics very rarely follows the tenets of either sides of the force, Obi-wan. But that is why we are going; it is the duty of a Sith to ensure freedom for all."

A frown etches itself upon Obi-wan's face and he looked back up toward the ceiling. 'We'll be meeting with Alderaan's fleet soon enough,' his mind told him. And for some reason, that only gave him a bad feeling. Channeling his worry, Obi-wan felt it and his frustration melt into a deep well of power in his soul.

Though he could not see it, his master smiled. 'At least the boy is finally learning  embrace his emotions. Far too often does he dispel them,' the Sith Lord thought to himself, before rising to climb into his own bunk.

**|-o-|**

Fire. Death. Sorrow. Pain. Beauty. Power. Suffering. Rage. Rage. _Rage_.

With a gasp, the young boy's eyes snapped open. Sweat beaded his skin, and his chest rose erratically, but he dared not sit up. Not with the Gamorrean brute that prowled the floor of the slave pens, ready to beat anyone violating the sleep period back into unconsciousness.

The rising fear in the boy's throat was swallowed, and instead he shut his eyes, trying to get to sleep. Thoughts of his mother's warm embrace filled his mind, and would have, on most nights, calmed him. But his mother's smile began to clash with her beaten face, and her laugh with last gasps for air. Sleep then proved unobtainable, and he was made to stare straight at the ceiling. And once again, Anakin Skywalker cursed Gardulla the Hutt with all his heart.

**|-o-|**

Padmé breathed heavily as she ran over the barren landscape. The wind whipped her hair, and the sweat of her palms nearly made her grip on her blaster rifle falter. Nearly, but it was enough for her teacher to sigh in frustration.

"Paddy! That's enough. 'Mandalore the Stabilizer' will _de_ stabilize my brain matter if his ward gets killed by Alderaanians because I ran her ragged," the aged warrior growled, only half joking.

"I'm fine Tor! Run the drones again!" the girl panted out in response.

Tor Vizsla shook his head. "Like I said, Jango would be very angry with me if you wind up too tired to fight when those posh bastards send down their invasion force. Hell, Satine gets worried enough about our training exercises when there aren't warships in orbit."

"Satine worries too much. Run it again! We don't even know of they're really here to do anything but blockade."

"Paddy. You really believe all those ships up there are only here to block trade? Here I thought Satine was teaching you proper diplomacy and tactics. Besides, you can't trust the Organas. Queen Breha sold out her whole House, and everyone knows she defers to Bail on nearly every issue. At least when House Antilles ran things, Alderaan was willing to hear your case before looking down at you. Now it's nothing but 'tradition this', 'Commonwealth values that', and plenty of passive aggressive threats of war."

“You’ve only ranted about them fifty times before this, Tor.”

“Exactly! Maybe eventually you’ll listen. Now c’mon, it’s time to head in.”

"...One more time?"

"You really were meant to be a Mandalorian, Padmé," he said with a grin, the training drones already booting back up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know, but I suppose I wanted to do a teaser for now. Thoughts? At all interested? Do you want to know more? Please Review and/or Comment!


	2. The Battle for Mandalore, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle for Mandalore begins, and our heroes start the journey that will lead them together and change the galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I guess I just haven't been satisfied with how I've written this. I also wish it was longer, but I figured I had let it go unposted for long enough. Might as well show what I got right? I do have more, I just felt like putting it all into one chapter messed with the pacing; it seemed like too much packed in. Ah well, we'll see how things go.
> 
> On with the story!

The _Tenebrosity VII_ approached the Mandalorian atmosphere, course set for the looming Alderaanian fleet. In the pilot’s seat, the young Sith apprentice frowned.  
“Master?”  
  
“Yes, apprentice?”

“I broadcasted our identification to the Star of Alderaan. And they’ve cleared us for landing in their hangar.”

“That was rather fast,” the older human noted, brow furrowing.

“My thoughts are the same, master. As if they were ready for us. No time even spent processing it.”

“...Grab your armor, young one.”

Obi-wan rushed out of the cockpit, making a mad dash for the cargo hold. Without hesitation, he opened a generic metal container and removed the durasteel within. Seconds ticked by, and the clacking of clasps interlocking came at a similar speed. Unlike the technical and bulkier design of his master’s, Obi-wan’s armor was smooth, sleek, and compact. The Triumvirate Era had always been one of his favorites as an acolyte. As the familiar helm covered his face, Niisen entered.

“It would seem we are being provided an escort upon docking as well.” There was barely enough time to see the man’s smirk before the dark hood of his cloak hid his features.

Attaching his lightsaber to his belt, Obi-wan said nothing as he followed his master to the entry ramp, the ship lurching as the autopilot finished its landing sequence.

As the ramp descended, the two Chevaliers were met by a rather large regiment of heavily armed soldiers. At their head stood Pentor Rieekan, who had what appeared to be a warm smile. The Sith, however, could easily sense the fear of the troops, and the guilt of the admiral.

“My lord,” Pentor bows, “I have been asked to escort you to a conference room to meet with Prince Organa. Will you comply without argument?”

“Comply? Am I correct in the assumption we are being detained?” the Sith Lord cautiously asked. Obi-wan’s hand twitched for his weapon.

“N-not at all! I was merely asking if you would prefer some other arrangement,” stuttered out the man. “Now then, if they are no objections…” Turning on his heel, Pentor began to hurriedly walk away. The Sith eventually followed, the soldiers nervously bringing up the rear. It took only a few minutes to reach the conference room. There were three chairs around a holoprojector, and four blank walls created a feeling of being entrapped. Admiral Rieekan stood aside for the two armored Sith to enter. And, of course, as soon as both of them crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut, trapping the Chevaliers inside.

Obi-wan sighed inwardly. "Master, why is every trap we see so obvious? I had hoped this one would have more...finesse."

“Finesse, Obi-wan, is the mark of the intelligent. Setting a trap for a Sith Lord and his well-trained apprentice is a clear mark of those lacking in both mind and survival instincts,” came the chuckling response of Lord Niisen.

Both fell silent, however, when the holoprojector crackled to life.

“My lords,” came the respectful reply of Prince Organa, “I do apologize for how you must be treated, but this is a matter that I am afraid you can’t be allowed to interfere in. Too many resources are being spent, too many key plans relying on it. As strategists, I am sure you can understand.”

“What we understand is that we will be getting out of here. You have made a grave mistake, Prince Organa. I do not know where you are, but I will find you, and I will kill you,” Niisen replied cooly.

Sighing, Bail pressed a button not seen in the projection. Panels in the walls opened suddenly and gas began to pour into the chamber. “I was afraid that would be your response. This ought to put you unconscious long enough. Goodbye, my lords.” The projector shut down as quickly as it had activated.

Obi-wan locked eyes with his master for but a moment before both had their sabers ignited, carving into the door of the conference room. The apprentice’s red blade sliced through the physical outer latches while Darth Niisen’s own orange blade made quick work of the door’s inner locking mechanism. A quick twist of the older man’s hand and the door crumpled open with ease, the two Sith stepping out to find their previous escorts now aiming their rifles directly at the pair. “My lords! Put your weapons down and go back into the meeting room. Now,” one commanding officer spoke. Niisen only grinned.

**|-o-|**

Even with days of preparation for it, war didn’t come to Mandalore in anything less than a flash. One moment, the skies were clear and the ships above stayed where they were. And in the next, buildings were exploding, fighters were descending like swarms of insects, and people were scrambling about. However, it was Mandalore, and the people scurried not in panic or fear, but in a rush to find the nearest weapon and piece of cover they could.  
Right along with them was Padmé. Tor was with her, and the two were juking and weaving through the throngs of people seeking better ground to prepare for the incoming ground troops.

“I am a Mandalorian,” she whispered to herself. “I am a Mandalorian. I am a Mandalorian.” And yet, even as her mantra was spoken, familiar thoughts clawed into her mind. _You are not a Mandalorian. You’re a Naboo. A weak, pathetic Naboo of the Naberrie family, a family that was cast off, the voice whispered. You are here because your blood was foolish enough to challenge the Palpatines, and too weak to stop them. You are a Naberrie, you are not Clan Fett._ It was then that an Alderaanian dropship touched down on Mandalorian soil, and a whole squadron of men cautiously stepped out. Around her, Padmé saw her hiding kinsmen readying their blasters, unsure whether to strike first or try to find a better place to defend. _You are a Naboo, you are no--_

“For Mandalore!” Padmé shouted as loud as she could, more than anything to drown out the poisonous voice in her head. She ran from her cover with no regard for her own safety, gunning down two foes before the other reacted, shocked to see gaping holes where faces had once been. By that point, the other ‘civilians’ had popped out, following her lead and firing upon the invaders stuck in their killzone. Within a few seconds the blaster fire halted, the foreigners all lying dead, except for one man trying to crawl away. Pulling a knife from her boot, Padmé walked right up and forced the man over, kneeling beside him. The soldier’s initial reaction was surprise at seeing a teenage girl looming over him, followed by confusion as he saw the blade, and lastly dread as he stared into Padmé’s eyes. “Wha...What are you?” he choked out; the men had been ready for an army of heavy armored bounty hunters, not civilians—children!—with rifles. Without ceremony, her blade found itself jabbed right into the man’s throat. “I am a Mandalorian,” she declared loudly, and as she saw the life leave the soldier’s eyes, Padmé believed herself.

Tor and every other man and woman had fierce grins of pride as the girl stood, and she knew that they believed her too.

**|-o-|**

Obi-wan stepped over the bodies of the former security detail. He stood ready, crimson saber raised into a defensive hold. Behind him, Darth Niisen was looting the corpses in search of a map. A simple ‘aha!’ was heard, and the apprentice turned back to his master. “Did you find it, master?”

“This way,” was the man’s only reply, and the pair began to walk carefully to the escape pods. To the surprise of both, they found little in the way of security besides the occasional two man patrol. And that meant only one thing. “The invasion has begun,” Lord Niisen declared to the air, and the pace of both doubled. As they entered the escape pod bay, five soldiers stood ready, obviously warned of the Siths’ arrival.

Both men charged into the fray. A blaster bolt seared Obi-wan’s deltoid, and he returned the favor by ramming his lightsaber into the man’s chest, leaving a cauterized hole. He blocked another blaster shot, followed by two more in quick succession, and a torrent of force lightning crackled from Obi-wan’s free hand, the flesh of the offender seering and peeling as it was cooked upon his body. A quick glance allowed him to see his own master choking another man to death, the headless corpse of his compatriot not far behind. That only left one more trooper, who had dropped his blaster in fear after watching his comrades get eviscerated. Obi-wan bisected him at the waist without hesitation.

“Very good, young one. You’ve learned not to hesitate when faced with an opponent that does not appear dangerous. Had he walked away, that man would've likely fetched reinforcements. And you’ve learned to trust your instincts and simply strike when they demand. Well done,” Niisen remarked as he stepped into a pod, his apprentice close behind. The young man beamed behind his helmet as he hit the launch button, their pod jettisoning to the planet below. 

Jettison, perhaps, is far too elegant a term for their descent. Flung or hurled would be a more apt description, every warning light and alarm blaring until they crashed into what appeared to be a city slums. Heavy fighting could be heard, and even as the Sith crawled from the wreckage, an Alderaanian walker unit stomped over, chasing a scurrying trandoshan, whose own blaster fire seemed to have little effect. Acting quickly, Lord Niisen reached out and slammed the walker down into the ground, causing it to collapse in on itself. The trandoshan whirled around to see his saviours, a look of suspicion dominating his eyes at first before it gave way to gratitude.

“Thank you, soft ones. Would have been a stain upon the stone had you not come with aid,” came the raspy exclamation of gratitude, the words a strange mix of the usual hisses and growls of Dosh and some mangled form of Mando’a. Once again, the Sith were grateful that the Force allowed them to understand all beings with relative ease.

“You are quite welcome, my friend. I am Darth Niisen of the Sith, and this is my apprentice, Obi-wan. Might I ask your name? Better yet, might you have a good grasp of the current situation here on Mandalore?”

“Jar-jar Bissk,” the reptilian sentient says with a slight bow before giving the trandoshan equivalent of a grin. “As for what is happening, well, Mandalorians are losing. Just heard outworlders saying they have nearly all of Clan Fett captured.”

The Sith looked at each other with heavy frowns. Clan Fett had ruled with a steady hand, and was instrumental in getting Mandalore to become a loyal member of the Commonwealth. “The trandoshans have been welcomed in great numbers on Mandalore since Trandosha’s star supernova’d, correct? Are all of you fighting?”  
Jar-jar let out a hissing laugh. “Mandalore might have let us stay after we lost Hsskor, but we were not 'welcomed'. We live in desert towns and slums, and have since first got here almost full generation ago. It will take more than non-T’doshok fighting non-T’doshok to make us fight for this place. No score in fighting for a cause that harms us all.”

“Surely some of you consider Mandalore home.”

“Maybe, smooth one, but most not think much will change if one non-T'doshok runs things over another. We remain on bottom.”

“...Do you have any sort of central leadership? Perhaps I might speak to them, convince them. Surely they'd like the idea of being in debt to the Mandalorians,” Darth Niisen asked, emphasizing his last point.

Jar-jar gained a gleam in his eye, but simply shrugged. “I can take you to Huntmaster. For a price, of course.”

"Name it," Niisen responded, ignoring his apprentice's seeming revulsion for the creature's greediness. "We have plenty of Commonwealth specie on us. Smugglers' notes too, if that more suits your...hobbies."

Jar-jar hissed out another laugh. "And Sith said to be unreasonably idealistic! But no. I don't want specie or notes. I want a head." The two Sith stood confused, unsure if to take the trandoshan's request as literal, metaphorical, or some combination thereof. "Don't worry, Sith. It's smuggler's head I want. One that deals in flesh and spice. I know where he is, I know how many men he has, and all you must do is keep those men off me. Then we walk out with his head, and then I take you to Huntmaster."

Obi-wan could not hold himself back any longer. Even behind his helm, the man's disgust was evident. "You want to us to help you get an actual man's head?! Why the kr—"

"Apprentice!" Niisen interrupted. Obi-wan felt an invisible hand at his throat, and he quickly ceased all attempts to speak out. "Mind your place and your manners," the older man growled. Turning back to the alien, who looked on in both curiosity and fear, the Sith Chevalier responded, "I see no reason why that shouldn't be a problem. A slaver and drug dealer is someone Sith have no qualms ending for the good of all. What is his name? And, as my apprentice rudely attempted to ask, why do you want his head itself?"

Jar-jar grinned wickedly. "His name is Hondo Ohnaka. He stole my score."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good? Bad? As I said, another short one, but it is longer than the prologue! Maybe I'll just get better with the length over time, or maybe this thing will end up a monolith of short chapters. Here's to the former, eh? Review and Comment! Cheers!


	3. The Battle for Mandalore, Part II; Revelations in the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle upon Mandalore continues on, and our heroes continue down their path. Now, an Alderaanian soldier realizes his sins, Obi-wan discovers Jar-jar's secret, and Anakin learns how to beat back his demons.

Jango Fett was not a man prone to flights of fancy, whimsy, cavorting, impulse, or caprice. Perhaps a bit of capering here or there, but only when amongst the presence of family and family alone. It was Jango Fett who, steadfast against all opposition, wrangled the other Clans to peacefully accept him as Mandalore the Stabilizer, effectively doing what his name promised for the weary people of Mandalore. He had even married the daughter of one of the other most influential Clans, Clan Kryze. Through it all, Jango remained stoic and pragmatic, the first name, word, and picture of badassery.

But even the Mandalore knew when he was beaten, knew when death was coming without doubt. And he would be damned if he didn't, at the least, make sure his family knew he loved them. Wrists bound, sitting on the floor of what had once been his mighty throne room, Jango turned to Satine, who sat in a similar state. She was younger than he was, sure, but she had always been the wiser of the pair.

"So...bet you twenty specie you never thought this would be how we'd go," he said, voice as smug as ever. It was only his eyes that held his worry, his concern, his  _fear_. Not for his own life, of course, but for those of his wife, son, and daughters. The Alderaanians had come to send more than a message; they had come to destabilize the planet once again, and the only way to properly do that was to remove all of Clan Fett.

"I admit, I pictured there would be more cheering. Enemies craning their necks to see ours severed," she responded smoothly, a slight tug of her lips and a glance of her eyes showing her concern to be equal—if not greater—to Jango's. "We still have some hope, you know."

"We do? Here I thought 'kriffed' was the only word for our situation."

"Language, Jango."

"You're right, I'll cut the kriffing cursing. Now the hope you were talking about?"

Sighing, and rolling her eyes, Satine began to answer him, "Well they still haven't caught Pad—"

Of course, right at that moment, Padmé and Tor Vizla were both dragged into the throne room, the latter thrown off to the side with a gun planted firmly against his head. Padmé, instead of being led to her family, was held by the Alderaanian captain, who had a cruel sneer on his face,

"What were you going to say, Sat?"

"We're kriffed."

"Ah, so I was right. As usual."

"You ought to be glad I'm not the one holding the guns."

From his vantage point on the floor, Jango could see Padmé as she struggled against the captain, trying to free herself of his grip. The man only held her tighter as a another soldier—a medic it appeared—injected her with a sedative. The girl slumped, and while she did not fall unconscious, she did not move as she was bound.

The hours ticked by, and everyone in the room held their breath. The guards that had dragged the girl in watched Padmé with fear and hatred prevalent in their eyes, even as she lied near immobile. When they had captured her, there had been ten of them. She had given the remaining seven plenty to be afraid of. As she felt her body gain back its feeling, Padmé was handed to the holding of another guard, while the captain walked out of the throne room before returning minutes later.

The captain was almost comical in his sheer level of dramatics. The man's hair was ragged and his eyes rather wild, and he was smiling manically, a smile that seemed to widen the more Padmé squirmed. Not to mention every word was given at least one to two flairs of the hand. "So, my naive little Naboo, I have been given rather interesting orders. I am to approach you as a possible successor for the planet, with Alderaanian backing, so long as you follow our interests. But I also must make sure you both stay loyal to us and do not go repeating the mistakes of your adopted family when you slowly reclaim this world in a decade or two. And that is why I think a lesson is in order. After all, you refused our gracious offer for you to surrender when we first captured you, and killed some of the best of us; leaving that unpunished would in no way build the fear for us you need to."

Quite suddenly, the few soldiers monitoring Clan Fett all stepped forward, weapons at the ready as they slowly encircled the Mandalorian royals. "Lesson number one; those who act militarily against the interests of Alderaan, and through it the Commonwealth, deserve death. Lesson number two; those who act diplomatically against the interests of Alderaan, and through it the Commonwealth, deserve death. Lesson number three; those who act secretly and personally against the int—well I think you see where I'm going. Now Clan Fett has gone against these lessons for far too long. What say you, Naboo?"

The slender teen looked at the man, with his well-pressed outfit, top-of-the-line personal blaster, greasy hair, and chipped tooth. Staring right into his eyes, not an ounce of fear in her, she spoke but two small words, two words that everyone loves to say and everyone fears to say. "Kriff. You." The vague mumble of "that's my girl" from Jango was audible in the silence that followed.

Padmé remained silent as, for the second time in her life, her family was killed before. The smoke that rose from the holes peppering Satine's and Jango's bodies seemed as though it were choking her. Her younger siblings, the eldest, Sora, no older than nine years of age, all cried out before blaster fire silenced them. Padmé tried to shed no tears, and only one rolled down her face. She tried to focus elsewhere, upon anything but the bodies. She saw the soldier, the one who had shot Sora, she saw his blaster shaking in his hands, and she realized that the reason why her sister screamed longest was because the man had hesitated to fire. And for that, Padmé could only hate him more.

And as her eyes burned like fire into the man's own, fear carved itself into his features. He saw pain and death and hate all channeled into one girl, one girl who appeared as old as his own daughter back upon Alderaan. The one he had shot had been far younger, he knew, but it was Padmé Fett's stare that truly cut into his soul; you could never see the pain in a corpse's eyes. The man began backpedaling, eventually his back hitting the wall. The captain called out to him, demanding to know why he was acting as he had. After all, only one member of Clan Fett lived, and with that the battle was nearly won.

"Soldier?" asked the captain, hearing him mumble.

"We're...we're monsters," came the man's louder reply, "Every last one of us."

"Pull yourself together! This is nearly over!" the captain commanded, striding over to the panicking man. "You'll be going home soon, back to our home."

"I...I can't go back. This...this isn't what the Commonwealth is about…"

"We've done what is necessary! Now straighten up! Quit losing your head over some Mandalorian dogs! Filth of their ilk need to be culled if we are to remain a nation of purity! Of order! Of streng—"

That was when a beam of light ripped its way through the captain's heart. It came not from the back, but from the soldier's blaster. It took a whole three seconds for the other men to realize what had happened. And that was when the soldier shot himself in the head.

**|-o-|**

Obi-wan felt his uneasiness triple outright as he and his companions journeyed onward. Another suspicious glare was given to the trandoshan to his left. Jar-jar had been helpful, but the apprentice couldn't help but feel uneasy about him. The alien seemed too eager to aid them, and it struck him as odd that he would be attacking a walker of all things on his own when they had arrived. It seemed suspect, and from beneath his helmet, Obi-wan kept his eyes firmly on Jar-jar Bissk. However, after twelve minutes of walking, an Alderaanian patrol saw them, and the young man was forced to focus upon the battle at hand.

Fourteen soldiers, blasters in hand, attempted to mow them down; Obi-wan and Niisen quickly had their sabers out, deflecting bolt after bolt until one of the men fell. The small pause in fire allowed Obi-wan and his master to unleash a torrent of lightning upon their foes. Attempting to evade, the enemies began running for cover. When the work of the Force ended, they peaked out, only to see a nearly unarmored trandoshan running directly at them, firing blindly. "For the glory!" he kept shouting, taking down only one soldier before he was forced to dodge under cover, waiting for the Sith Chevaliers to come to his aid. The twelve remaining men was hacked to pieces as they, foolishly, tried to retreat. The last watched as his legs stood upright before sinking to their knees, his upper body having fallen to the ground before them. His final sight was his own intestines pouring from his own waist.

Catching his saber in hand as it twirled back to him, Darth Niisen turned his obviously wrathful gaze upon Jar-jar. "What was that?!"

"What?" asked the alien, confusion coming to his scaly face. "I charged into battle, like in the old songs!"

"You could've been killed!"

"Sith, I didn't know you were already so attached to me!"

"No, you fool! We are here to keep you alive so you can kill this Ohnaka and then take us to the Huntmaster! If you run into the heat of battle like a startled nerf, you'll be of no use to us! And I will not let anything stand in our way! Either you will keep yourself defended from now on, or I will simply rip your knowledge from your mind and leave you a shelled husk!" the Sith growled, eyes a burning, potent yellow and red.

A shot from the distance was all that saved the being from a likely painful, as the look on his face was one of someone about to retort an insult. The trio looked up for the source, and as nearly thirty bandits appeared atop a pile of rubble, Obi-wan felt fear settle into his bones.

"Bissk!" called a Weequay from the head of the group. "What's this I hear of you planning to kill me? Certainly not very sportsmanlike. Not to mention idiotic. What happened last time? Oh right! I had you crawling out of the bar! Man, a trandoshan losing their whole score over fight about a pod-race bet? Ridiculous!" The man, assumedly Hando Ohnaka, paused as his minions let out their own hearty laughs.

"And now I've got you and—whaddya know—two Sith right in my sights! Personally, Sith, I suggest you surrender, hand over any specie or notes you've got on you, and let me kill that little lizard. Then you can be on your way saving the planet or whatever. Besides, we've got you outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. You're cornered."

Jar-jar, on his part, only laughed back, before growling a bit. "You're wrong, Hando," he hissed. "It is you who is right where I want you!" he shouted, charging at the rubble pile, firing blindly oncemore.

Before he and his master jumped to protect the trandoshan and engage the bandits, Obi-wan came to a realization. Jar-jar wasn't plotting some elaborate scheme to betray them, he wasn't some trap set by the Alderaanians, and he wasn't simply trying to get in close to swindle their money away. No, the cause of Jar-jar's suspicious actions was something far, far worse: the creature was simply incredibly stupid.

**|-o-|**

Anakin yelped as the electricity coursed through his body. The fine hairs of his arms rose like soldiers at attention, and his spine curled back like a cresecent moon. Pain, for those brief and yet eteneral, moments was all his world. While he kept screaming, Anakin tried to focus, tried to ignore the pain, to let it leave him, to let his mind simply go blank, to let him simply exist without feeling.

The torture ended, the slavedriver chortling as he stalked away. The boy had done nothing wrong. He had done all his work, had spoke not one syllable out of turn, and had only just finished his meager ration of protein gel when the twi'ilek had decided that Anakin deserved punishment. Gardulla never did anything to prevent it; it was good to keep slaves on their toes, she always said.

Anakin glared into the back of the man's skull, and gripped the wrench at his feet tightly. 'If I'm was quick enough,' he thought to himself, 'no one will even know it was me.' And he stood, wrench in hand, as he began stalking towards the unsuspecting slavedriver. He had not walked three paces when a gnarled, firm hand placed itself on his shoulder, holding him back. Whipping around, the boy came to face a wizened old man, a fellow slave, whose multitude of crossed off brands upon his neck and face showed just how used a slave could be.

"Let me go, Falzin!" Anakin hissed in a whisper.

"No. Let  _it_  go, boy," the old man responded, voice both weary and firm.

"The kriff are you talking about?" he demanded, voice raising; the slavedriver had wandered into another room, and the door had shut behind him. Anakin's chance for vengeance was gone.

The man sighed. "Only nine years, and already such language. I mean  _it,_  boy. Your anger. Your hate. You have to let it go. It doesn't do you any good."

"What, should I just let him hurt me? Forget it happened? Forgive him? Letting go is just what cowards say who're afraid they can't change things!"

The smack across his face was unexpected.

"Watch yourself, boy. I have lived far longer, and seen much more. So show a little respect. Thought your mother would've tried teaching you that much. And yes, I knew Shmi. She...was a good woman. Look, boy. Letting all that hate build in you...it'll eat you up. Letting anything build in you'll do that. Hate, Pain, Sorrow, even Love! It'll only hurt you, distract you. I ain't saying to give up. I'm just saying that you need to focus on the big picture. Killing that man would've done what? Made you feel better? They'd have realized it was you eventually, and then you'd only get hurt more. I've seen you at night, boy, trying to rest but your heart not letting you. And it's affecting your work. You're making more errors, getting hit more, starved more. Keep that up and you'll never escape this place. If you even want a chance of something better than this, you gotta learn to think beyond yourself and just  _let go_ ," the man said. His words held conviction, held wisdom. And then he walked off.

That night, Anakin lied thinking. Old Falzin had been a slave all his life, and had lived to be nearly ninety, a miracle in itself. Most slaves died from exhaustion, or simply lost the will to live. 'Is that the secret?' Anakin wondered, 'The only way to live is to let it all go? My hate? My anger? My...mother? Let it all go?' His mind jumped to how, during his electrocution, he escaped the pain for a few precious moments by simply disconnecting, letting the pain simply flow into him and out of him to some far off, imaginary place.

After breathing deeply, the boy began to try and relax. He focused on the funny feeling he had grasped earlier, the calming feeling that always lingered in the back of his mind, that made him think of his mother's embrace. He clung to it now, envisioning a hole filled with light the grew as tried to pull it open, and at the same time he imagined all his feelings, all the pain he had suffered, as a pulsating ball of darkness. He cast it into the light, let it slip from his fingers, and suddenly it felt like a weight had left his shoulders. His eyes opened, and the boy felt renewed, as if he had been freshly bathed and massaged after a long day's work, and then he began to feel very tired.

That night, Anakin Skywalker slept soundly, without terrors or memories plaguing him for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here's the next chapter! Hope it doesn't disappoint and sorry for the wait! Please leave kudos and comments, it really helps motivate me to write.


	4. Strategic Withdraw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes on Mandalore meet up and realize they must depart, arriving on Tatooine, where they find a strange boy...

_Peace is a lie, there is only passion._ The first line of the _Qotsisajak_ ran through Obi-wan's mind again and again and again as he took several deep breaths. As much he wished to follow the code, he knew he had to swallow down his own anger for the moment. His master stood ready to finish off their trandoshan companion, and despite the apprentice's distaste for the sentient, he knew he was valuable and thus stepped in to save the poor thing.

"Master?" he rather quietly called. After all, he was not in too much of a rush. "I understand your frustration with Mr. Bissk, but now that he has the...item he sought from the smuggler Ohnaka, he can now take us to this Huntmaster. And from there we may begin coordinating a resistance movement. As is our new objective, yes?"

Darth Niisen did not respond for several moments, but eventually he nodded his head, arm dropping to his side. Jar-jar, having turned a strange shade of deep orange as he suffocated, fell onto his hands and knees, gasping for breath after so long with his throat constricted by the Force. "I suppose you are correct, apprentice," he stated, teeth clenched. The armored man grabbed the reptilian by the shoulder roughly, pulling him up. "Now _you_ shall take us to your leader. And wrap up that head! The blood is getting everywhere. By the Force, I would rather battle Corellian wolves upon the plains of Hoth with nothing by broken bottles than d—"

The irate Sith suddenly stopped, clutching his chest. Obi-wan had done much the same, neither feeling pain, but instead feeling a sudden burst of energy, somewhere far off. A great pain, radiating darkness into the Bogan like a fresh wound seeping blood into water. The two force sensitives looked at one another before rushing off in the same direction. Their alien companion looked confused, having scrambled to wrap the head as commanded. He finished, using cloth from a corpse, before running after the Sith; he was better off with them, as compared to the Alderaanians.

The trio did not stop, the Sith because of their connection to the Force, and Jar-jar because he feared what would happen if he lagged too far behind. Obi-wan admitted to himself that, as the source of the emotion came into view, he wasn't entirely surprised. Before them stood the massive Hall of Mandalore, the _de facto_ palace of the planet, wherein Mandalore the Stabilizer and much his Clan resided. Ironically enough it had been built only a few short generations ago, a beacon of stability now crumbling from foreign invasion.

Both Chevaliers ignited their lightsabers with a _snap-hiss_ , expecting a legion of Alderaanians troops as they bee-lined for the throne room. Instead, all they found were corpses. Some had died of wounds minutes prior, others died upon being hit. The carnage then, was not one of accuracy, but of a pitched, brutal fight, and many of the soldiers had died facing one another.

"From the looks of these bodies, it would seem this was infighting, not an attack. At least for most of them," Darth Niisen observed, unfazed by the sight.

Obi-wan, in contrast, tried to avert his gaze, and was thankful for his helmet's filtration; the scent of defecated corpses was something he couldn't tolerate, and always, _always_ , regardless of friend or foe, he felt a sadness when he saw the faces of the dead. It made them real, made them not dead soldiers, but dead _people_ , with husbands and wives and sons and daughters and mothers and fathers. With family. With friends. He latched onto these emotions, despite his shame, and used the power to rather ironically steel his resolve. "An attempted coup? Conflicts over rank? Desertion?" he pondered.

"No, look there, several of these shots are self-inflicted," Niisen said, pointing at a cluster of bodies.

"Self-inflicted? Why?"

"You are young, apprentice. This is not uncommon, especially with Alderaanians. I was deployed in the House Wars. I fought with House Antilles-Thul against the Organas for a time; never dealt with politics, I was there to ensure the safety of civilians as to gain the Commonwealth more support. Alderaan has been a critic of policy since Darth Nox signed the Charter. But regardless, while there I saw this plenty: one soldier cracks, feels like a monster, kills someone or two and then kills himself. War and its atrocities...Alderaanians have a code, or had a code, of conduct and manners. Going against it, tossing it aside, it makes soldiers feel like they're the embodiment of all their people were raised to condemn. Others crack, feel he was right, begin killing. Then the opportunists see a time to kill off officers they don't like, and then the panicked begin going after anyone who gets too close. A bloody violence where everyone is an enemy, although usually a few survivors are left, suicidals who are out of ammo most commonly, or a one of the panicked that was a decent shot. I'm unsure of the likelihood of _everyone_ dying," the older Sith explained, the trio wandering through the battlefield.

"I killed the rest," came a mumble, tired and weary.

The Sith whipped towards the sound, lightsabers at the ready, only to find a girl, not yet a woman, sitting on a piece of rubble, a blaster held with a death grip in her lap. Her grime and her placid appearance had made her easy to ignore, but a quick tapping into the Force let the two warriors see that she was the source of the darkness swirling in the place.

Cautiously stepping forward, Darth Niisen lowered his lightsaber, but kept it ignited. "Who are you?" he asks.

"I...I am a Mandalorian," the girl responded, sounding almost in a trance. She was obviously shell-shocked and it took her a moment to breath and lessen, but not lose, the haunted look in her eyes. "I mean…" she tried to say, shaking her head and standing, snapping a salute. "Padmé, ward of Clan Fett, my lords," she says with a steeled determination, "...Last of Clan Fett," she adds, a bitter anger tainting the words.

Obi-wan, seeing the girl's pain and honesty, deactivated his lightsaber. "The last?" he asked carefully, hoping not to cause her further grief. "Are you, then, Mandalore for the moment?" _A young girl, Mandalore! These people truly are doomed_ , he thought to himself.

"Tor Vizsla has gone to lead our people," she responded, an uncomfortable look passing over her.

Darth Niisen nodded, deactivating his own blade, noting with curiosity how she answered. "I've heard of the man. Strong, tough. Mandalore will be in good hands until we come back."

"Come back?" asked both Obi-wan and Padmé in unison, who then looked at each other before back at the Sith Lord.

"What about the Huntmaster?" Jar-jar piped up, the being having caught up, and having chosen to remain quiet, still frightened of Darth Niisen.

"Organizing a rebellion will be useful, yes, but a proper condemnation by the Delegation will have far more power, and will allow us to rally other systems to come push the Alderaanians out," he explained, and then points to Padmé. "You are the last of Mandalore's ruling Clan. Vizsla will lead the resistance here for now, while we go to Coruscant. You will testify, petition for aid, and then, pass or fail, we shall return and go to the Trandoshans to gain their aid and cooperation."

After a moment, Obi-wan nods, seeing the sense. "Yes, my master," he responds, before turning to a still obviously torn Padmé. "If we are to gain the Delegation's support, we must leave while we can and as soon as possible. Best to go now and fail to gain their pledge than to wait and gain it when it is too late for it to do any good."

She remains silent, but after a few baited breaths, she nods. "Let's go."

 

**|-o-|**

 

The _Clone I_ was a bit of a shaky vessel, in Obi-wan's opinion. According to their royal guest it was a replica of the late Jango Fett's prized vessel the _Slave I_. The change in name was supposedly because Mandalore the Stabilizer never felt the ship had been the same. Regardless, it flew, and the Sith apprentice accepted that there was little other choice. Their evasion through the blockade was thanks to the ship's own stealth systems, and the journey had gone onwards with little trouble. They were going to have to make jumps through the Outer Rim to avoid any incoming Alderaanian vessels flagging them, and Obi-wan was content in nothing exciting occurring. But much like every other outing he had ever gone on with his master, he was going to end with quite a few more early grey hairs.

"I thought you said this ship was undetectable!" he snarled, pulling on the controls as they swerved to the left, narrowly dodging a rather large barrage of torpedoes. The vessel rattled a bit, and the Sith ripped off his helmet to get a better view of the battlefield; there were at least fifteen raider ships, all attempting to take down their vessel. A live capture and wreckage scavenging was nearly the same in the eyes of a raider.

"It _is_ , when kriffing fools aren't flying right past a raider fleet in full optical view!" Padmé snapped back over the comm, unleashing another round of fire in retaliation. A blast clipped the wing of one of the raiders, who quickly began to spin out of control before he smashed into a compatriot, both ships exploding into one tangled wreckage.

"We can argue over whose fault this is _after_ we survive!" the voice of Darth Niisen roared. He stood in the engine room, using the Force to maintain the integrity of the hyperdrive with great difficulty. "Apprentice! Take us down to the closest planet! There may not be a planetary defense fleet, but criminals respect the claims of other criminals; they'll break away if we enter another gang's scavenging territory." He took a moment to wipe sweat from his brow, his hood having fallen back from his head, before adding lastly, "And make it a _clean_ landing!"

 _Clean is subjective,_ Obi-wan thought to himself, before hearing _No it isn't!_ shouted into his skull by his master across their bond. Shrugging, the Sith apprentice locked trajectory for the closest inhabited planet, a so called Tatooine. The _Clone I_ was forced to go as fast as possible, weaving and dodging as the raiders increased their volleys, desperate to hit the ship before it entered claimed space. Padmé, on her part, maintained fire as the ship moved more and more erratically, taking out another three raiders. And then suddenly, the remaining ten or so fighters broke off, right as Obi-wan saw his screen fill with Huttese. "Master?" he commed down the engine room, "How much do we have in our mission account?"

"600,000 specie. Why?"

"Er, what about in smugglers' notes?"

"...We have 15 notes. It's a Hutt world isn't it? How much is the entry toll?"

"10 notes, master."

" _10_?! That's 400,000 specie! Oh, Bogan's balls! Bah, pay them in specie; they'll prefer notes planetside," the Sith Lord growled back, clearly displeased.

The apprentice confirmed the transfer of funds, and was greeted by an animated icon of a dancing baby Hutt in thanks. At that point, Obi-wan kept the ship on course, ignoring the light indicating damaged landing gear and smoking engine as the droplet-shaped vessel descended into the atmosphere at speed far too fast. Attempting to stabilize, he let the vehicle shift into landing position, cringing as they hit the ground a few moments later, scraping along for a solid two minutes coming to a halt. "Another happy landing," he breathed out, knuckles white beneath his gauntlets as he slowly released his grip on the controls.

Padmé barged into the cockpit at that moment, anger across her face. "What did you do to my ship?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

Darth Niisen came in a second later, anger in his eyes. "I said a _clean landing_ , apprentice!" he shouted. As the Sith's hand rose, Obi-wan felt a pressure on his neck.

"Mas...ter! I did...my..best!" he choked out. Padmé's eyes widened as she realized what was occuring, her own anger fading in an instant, and now uncertainty replacing it as she debated stepping in. Luckily, Qui-gon Jinn was a reasonable man, if demanding, and not prone to needless murder. The Force Choke was ended, Darth Niisen shaking his head in a disappointed gesture.

"You could have deccelerated earlier, made our descent easier. You didn't, more focused on evading the raiders that we knew would depart when we entered claimed space. It seems you still have much to learn, my apprentice." With that, the Sith Lord took his leave, and after a long moment, Obi-wan slowly rose to follow.

"Is that...common?" Padmé asked quietly as she trailed behind.

"It is a common punishment, yes. An apprentice must always remember that their masters are stronger than them. A Force Choke drives that message home. One might call it tradition," he responded in an equally quiet tone. Padmé made no further comment, but she did visibly grow far more uncomfortable. They traversed the ship, and eventually came to the entry ramp, which had only been able to partially open, the missing landing gear leaving the ship lopsided. Darth Niisen stood waiting for them, arms crossed, Jar-jar next to him, still nervous around the Sith.

"Apprentice, you will stay here and guard the ship. I will be honest, as necessary as it is to keep the ship safe, this is also your punishment for your recklessness. Miss Fett, Bissk, and I will go into town and try to procure a new hyperdrive. Stick close, don't wander, don't trust anyone. Are we all clear on the plan?" After the nods from everyone, the trio departed as Obi-wan closed the ramp.

After nearly a half hour's journey, they arrived in town. In Padmé's honest opinion, Mos Eisley was one of the filthiest, strangest, dangerous ports she had ever seen in the known galaxy. Thus, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. The angry customers, smug vendors, the hustle and bustle as they made their way through the town. It reminded her of Mandalore, before the Alderaanian vessels had hovered in their skies, before the fear and the anticipation of the end of their world. So absorbed in simply enjoying the place, that she very nearly bumped into her Sith Lord companion.

"...dulla Besadii Diori. She has first rights to all scrap and salvage. For somethin' as valuable as a 'drive, she's your best bet. Won't be cheap though," the Rodian vendor finished, and Darth Niisen gave him a nod in thanks before walking away. Padmé followed, but paused as she turned around to find Jar-jar moments from trying to steal a rather impressive looking weapon. And by steal, it seemed his plan was to grab it and run, considering the owner of the stand was most definitely looking directly at him. The girl rolled her eyes and snapped at the trandoshan before motioning for him to get moving. _Filthy creature_ , she thought to herself, thoroughly unimpressed by the lizard folk who were supposed to be her planet's back-up plan.

They moved through the town for a while longer before arriving at a large structure that Padmé supposed was a palace. It was rusty, dented, and bloodstains that had dried ages ago were still present. The guards looked down upon the group with suspicion, but they were allowed to enter unmolested.

 

**|-o-|**

 

Anakin didn't mind working in the scrap shop. It was one of the preferable assignments, as it often looked bad to beat slaves in front of customers to Gardulla's personal salvage, as such high-payers usually came from the Commonwealth or other wealthy places that liked to pretend to have the moral high ground. His eyes quickly snapped up as three sentients were led inside.

The first was a man, a man whose presence seemed to make the room darken, and whose sulphuric yellow eyes made Anakin both want to run and hide, and ask him about all the many things he has seen. Following him was a simple trandoshan, one that Anakin could already tell was trouble. And finally...finally there came a girl; she was older than he was, perhaps by four or five years, and he could not say that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen (Gardulla had brought in _plenty_ of attractive slaves to satiate her customers in the past) but something about her just seemed _right_. It was not a pureness, for in her eyes he saw a haunted soul, saw a creature ready to kill, but even then he felt drawn to her, and he could not help but stare. She must have felt his eyes on her, for she looked at him, and their gazes locked before the twi'ilek leading the group shouted at him.

"Boy! Show these customers a hyperdrive! Now!" the man roared, and Anakin was quick to nod, waiting only for the trio to get closer before leading them into the labyrinth of shelves and parts he had memorized over the years. They walked on in silence, the group unconcerned with speaking to a slave who obviously cared little for why they had come, although both the man and the girl had seemed to look at him with an interest. As they passed a rather precariously stacked pile of parts, the trandoshan stepped ahead of the group and reached enthusiastically for a particular component. As he pulled on it, the pile began to topple, and as the girl let out a shout, Anakin whipped around, raising his hands.

"NO!" he shouted, and in that instant, just as the heap would have fallen, crushing the girl and her friends, it froze. Literally. Each piece of metal floated in the air unmoving, as if held up by an invisible force. Anakin gaped but did not move, instinct telling him that indeed _he_ was the cause of the miracle. The three strangers slowly, dazed and shocked, stepped out of the pile's shadow, and once they had Anakin dropped his arms, the metal falling with a large, loud, clang.

No one spoke. No one moved. The first to break the silence was the man, who looked on the slave in wonder. "Do you have a name, my friend?"

Anakin was taken aback; He was still unsure of _how_ he had stopped the pile, and thus he remained frozen, and took a good deal of time before he turned around and responded. "...Anakin. My name is Anakin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddam this took too long to write. I'm so sorry everyone. Thank you for all of the support!


	5. Sith'ari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which out heroes try to save a life by ending one

Sheev Palpatine smiled for several holos before making a final comment. “As I stated before, despite Naboo’s disagreement over the integration of Mandalore, I assure, as the Designated Speaker for the Chommel Sector, as appointed by Her Majesty Queen Dormé of Naboo, Sovereign of Chommel, that my people vehemently deny any connection to the Alderaanian blockade. Thank you.” With that, Palpatine entered his office, frustration carved into his face. He took several deep breaths, and he released his emotions entirely to the Force, an action he had been unable to do in weeks, only finishing when he felt entirely hollow, devoid of all passions aside from the dream of a greater good he wished to bring forth.

Palpatine pulled a holoprojector from a compartment in his desk, pressing a few buttons before it was set on floor, before which the man kneeled. Before him, the lanky form of a Muun flickered into existence. His suit was well made, and the Designated Speaker of the InterGalactic Banking Clan gazed onto him calmly.

“Master,” the human greeted, head still bowed.

“Sheev, you have long since stopped being this old man’s padawan,” the Muun chuckled in reply.

Rising, Palpatine smiled, just barely, as if only remembering how. “Habit, I’m afraid. However, you are in effect Grandmaster, as few of us as there are. I admit I am often still unsure if now was the right time to expand our Order. Regardless, I have news from Mandalore.”

“Tell me. I am curious as to how your padawan has been fairing.”

“Well, Hego, he has done well. Most if not all of the major landing areas have been whittled down to small-scale urban conflict, as to be expected.”

“A necessary removal of those who stand in the way of balance.”

“Of course. Khameir has just communicated with me that he has recovered the...package from the Mandalorian palace, but that the two Sith sent to the planet are not only still alive, but have Padmé Fett in tow. They intend to bring her here to Coruscant, to unveil the Alderaanian invasion and plead for intervention.”

“Troubling...but not unexpected in many forms. Has our ally been contacted just in case?”

“Yes. He will ensure our plans remain on track, if not accelerated.”

“Excellent. The liberation of the galaxy has begun, Sheev. Give Padawan Sarin my regards and well wishes.”

“Of course, Master Damask.”

With that, the connection was severed, the hologram vanishing as quickly as it had come.

 

**|-o-|**

 

“Anakin”, Darth Niisen repeated, as if testing the name in his mouth. After a long moment he stepped forward, noting that the boy had taken a step back in return. “Do not be afraid, youngling. What you just did there saved my companions from a rather unpleasant accident. One that could have even been deadly. That took quite a lot of power. Quite a lot of power indeed.” The man crossed his arms, and his robe moved for a brief moment to reveal his lightsaber. Anakin noticeably relaxed.

“You’re...you’re a Sith!” He exclaimed, eyes now in awe, “The defenders of the galaxy! Fighting for freedom...have...have you come to free me?”

Niisen looked at his two companions. Jar-jar was standing with his hands close to his sides, fearful of the Sith punishing him for his folly. Padmé, however, was gazing at the boy with a curious expression; not quite suspicion, not quite fear, and not quite awe, but something in between the three. Neither, it seemed, was going to give him aid in explaining things to the boy. His gaze turned back to Anakin, who himself was gazing back at Padmé, and hesitated before speaking. “No, we did not,” the man conceded, “but that doesn’t mean we cannot do that as well,” he then added, watching as the slave’s eyes snapped to him and lit up.

“Follow me, to your hyperdrive,” the boy replied, leading them with far more energy than previously. Soon they arrived at a wall of hyperdrives and other expensive ship parts. A dolly was conveniently placed nearby, and Anakin immediately set about preparing to haul one of the drives onto it. At the last moment before going to give it a good pull, the boy paused. Stepping back, he raised his hand, a smile splitting his face as the object began to move, albeit very slowly, from the shelf to the dolly. 

Niisen’s jaw nearly dropped at the spectacle, at the sight of a boy so young doing what took many years to master with relative ease. As that very notion settled into reality for the Sith, a single word then reverberated through his mind. ‘ _ Sith’ari. _ ’

 

**|-o-|**

 

The Sith Chevalier remained quiet, lost in thought, as the four made their way back to the front of the shop. The man had begun pushing the dolly, taking little note of the conversation that had struck up between the Mandalorian girl and the slave boy.

“So...are you a Sith too? You don’t much look like one,” Anakin asked, giving Padmé a critical look over.

“No, I am not. I am a Mandalorian,” she replied, annoyance obvious.

“Oh so you’re a bounty hunter!”

“What?! No! My people are proud warriors, and I am a member of Clan Fett, the rulers and guides of Mandalore!”

“Oh...so you’re a princess,” he fired back, in a tone that it obvious he knew she would take the term as an insult.

“Hmph. And you’re a slave-boy.”

Anakin stopped, looking at her in shock. Padmé herself was a bit surprised at her own words, but showed no outward remorse. That was when Anakin began to laugh and resume walking. “I like you. You’re...blunt,” he commented.

Padmé blushed and it took her a moment to jog back to the rest of the group. “You’re a strange boy, Analin.”

“Ana- _ kin _ ,” he corrected, “What’s your name?”

“Padmé.”

“Padmé...Padmé. Pretty name. Doesn’t sound very, well…”

“Tough and tribal?”

“Yeah. Aren’t most Mandalorian names like that. Goriks, and Fals, and Pryzes, and Yuuns, and Jangos and the like.”

She tried not to cringe at her late caretaker’s name, and instead responded with, “Not always! Some can sound rather sleek and posh. Satine, for example.”

“Right, but yours is almost...I dunno, floral?”

“...Well I wasn’t born on Mandalore.”

“Well where were you born?”

“Naboo.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s...it’s a beautiful place, full of trees and lakes and gleaming cities. That’s probably what makes it so weak. The people are soft and emotional, focused on presentation and appearances. They don’t even do battle, they just play political games of backstabbing and gossip.”

“Is...is that why you left?”

“No. My family tried to play the political game. And they lost.”

“They lost? What does that mean?” he asked, the child unaware of how uncomfortable the memories were for Padmé. Luckily for him, she was a Mandalorian; she would be willing to delve into the pain, if only to prove to herself that she could.

“They tried to make grabs for power against an old and powerful Naboo family. The Palpatines. My family, the Naberries, had little to no sway in comparison, but wanted to burst onto the political stage. Sabotaging rallies and sponsored events, revealing scandals, my kin tried their best. And the Palpatines took notice. Eventually people broke into our lake house, and they began to fire. I watched my pathetic family die, because they were both too foolish to know when to fall back, and too cowardly to know when to fight. I had just joined the Ambassadorial Corps, shipped off to Mandalore. I collapsed during a meeting. When he heard my story, Jango Fett spoke to the Naboo government of taking me as his ward. Considering the Palpatines were still in charge, they saw it as an easy way to get rid of the last of the upstart Naberries. I suppose I owe them thanks for letting the deal pass.”

Anakin, by this point, had grown quiet, pondering over how best to respond. “My...my mother was sold to Gardulla the Hutt while she was pregnant. I was born aboard the slave ship taking her here. When I was six, my mother intervened on one of my beatings. She did it twice more, and Gardulla decided she had become more trouble than she was worth. Guards came to beat my mother into submission, but she just kept cursing at them, so they just kept hitting her and hitting her. I watched her die. And then I was told to move the body and scrub the floors.”

It was Padmé’s turn to go silent in thought. It was in that moment that as she looked at the boy, and he at her, there was a sense of kindredness, of shared pain. It was not love or romance, but a connection nonetheless. They cut of a similar cloth, and the previous unease she had felt towards him dissipated. For the moment, the boy was an ally.

“Man, you people have some kriffed up lives!” came Jar-jar’s comment from the rear of them, looking profoundly disturbed. Both humans gave him a deathly glare that made the trandoshan hurry to walk closer to Darth Niisen. _“_ _ At least the Sith ignores me!”  _ he thought to himself.  __

 

**|-o-|**

 

The four finally made it to the front of the shop again. The twi’ilek dealer looked over the hyperdrive and began to sum up his own totals. “Hm...10 notes!” he grunted out, only for Darth Niisen to wave his hand a moment, causing the alien to twitch. “I mean...7 notes should be enough?” 

“Yes, good,” replied the Sith Chevalier, “And we will be taking the boy as well.”

At that the twi’ilek shook his head. “What? No! Gardulla won’t allow that!”

Feeling the man’s fear of the Hutt had overridden his mindtrick, Niisen sighed. “Then what do we have to give to get the boy? Surely there must be something, a wager maybe. Are there any races on Tatooine we could bet over?”

The alien paused before rushing over to a commline. It took several minutes before he walked back over, a grin on his face. “Follow me,” he said with a smug glee, leading the group, hyperdrive in tow, deeper into the palace. Eventually they arrived in a large room filled with people of all colors and species. At the center of the room was a large depression, a pit, filled with sand, in which two zabrak boys were fighting tooth and nail. Gardulla the Hutt, in all her vile glory, sat ringside. 

Shoving their way through the crowd, the group made it before the Hutt, he slowly looked at them and laughed.

“Hahahah...So. This is the party that wants to swindle me,” she grunted out in Huttese, “7 notes. This is the price you got my dealer to offer you, but I am no fool. I know a Sith when I see one.” Before Darth Niisen can even respond, she continues. “No hard feelings, of course. I respect the Sith. You keep business fair and profitable for we...legitimate cartels. But now you want to take one of my slaves, and a useful one at that. For him you propose a wager, and that I find entertaining. This is my deal to you: the slave fights in this ring. If he wins three fights, you pay me 10 notes, and take him and your hyperdrive. You lose, and you pay me  _ 20 _ notes for the hyperdrive and leave the boy with me.”

The Sith glances at his three companions for but a moment. Focusing on Anakin, the boy gives him a subtle nod; he was more than ready to fight for his freedom. “We are agreed, oh magnanimous Gardulla.”

“Ha! I can’t wait for your money. Little Ani hasn’t won a fight in his life! If he wasn’t a decent tinkerer, I woud’ve let his opponents kill him years ago!” At that moment, the shorter horned zabrak boy snapped the neck of the other. “Ah perfect timing,” Gardulla sneered, “Savage has lost! Feral wins his first round!” she calls to the crowd, half full of cheers and half full of boos. “The next round begins immediately! Feral against...Anakin!”

 

**|-o-|**

 

Anakin gulped a bit as he was grabbed by a handler. His shirt was ripped off, and his hands were quickly wrapped in bandages before he could even process what was happening. A shove from behind sends him tumbling into the ring, and he is still struggling to rise when Feral rushes at him, screaming in bloodlust. Slamming against the wall with a grunt, Anakin sees stars a for a moment as his breath leaves him.

A headbutt is ironically what brings him back to reality. One of the zabrak’s horns creates a gash on his eyebrow, running several inches up and down next to his eye. As his blood begins to run, Anakin finally reacts, sending a fist straight to the alien’s nose. Feral recoils allowing Anakin time to scramble away and get his bearings. 

The zabrak having recovered, he charges, and Anakin jumps to the side, hoping his opponent will run right into the other wall. He doesn’t. Instead, Feral grabs Anakin’s ankle and swings him in the air, slamming him down onto the ground. In a flash, he mounts Anakin, hailing punches right into the boy’s face. The gash widens, and there is little doubt it will scar. Feeling his consciousness begin to fade, Anakin takes one finger and jams it straight into Feral’s eye, feeling his nail pierce the soft tissue. 

With his foe reeling back, Anakin pauses. His mind takes him back to Falzin’s words, and to what he experienced the night thereafter. Concentrating, Anakin let his pain be fed away into the light, and in seconds he felt nothing, no pain, no fear, only clarity. Now focused, Anakin lifts his hips, bucking Feral off of him. In a blue, feeling but a sense of duty to defeat his foe, Anakin begins to easily dodge Feral’s strikes, catching one punch and break the alien boy’s wrist. Forcing the hold on the broken joint, he forces Feral to his knees, and with one, clean, Force-enhanced punch, collapses the boy’s throat, letting him go to suffocate. Feeling his clarity begin to fade, Anakin looks at the dying boy in horror. The crowd goes silent...and then erupts in applause. 

Gardulla growls. “Well done, boy,” she snarls, “But you have two more fights before you’re free!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, another short one. Sorry. But after finally get to writing something for the The Price of Freedom, I figured I should post what I have for Chapter 5 on here. Enjoy!


	6. My Chains Are Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a look into events occuring elsewhere, Anakin begins the final fight for his freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy has it been a while guys! Life has been hectic, but I am back! Happy Thanksgiving to all American readers, happy Thursday to all non.

The palace of Mandalore stands as a burning husk, appearing as dead and decaying as the corpses littered inside. Blaster marks litter the walls, and a hunks of marble and stone and durasteel lay crumbled about the ground as detris, the aura of pride and might now withered and broken. At the main entrance, before the broken door, a figure looms. The warm brown cloak around its shoulders billows in a breeze that brings the stench of death and battle.

The cloaked man—for its bulk did have masculine definition—meanders from body to body, only pausing to glance at each for a few seconds. Finally, he picks up a small bit of metal and string, a necklace, and examines it in hand, the almost peaceful eyes of Satine Kryze gazing up at him. So young, and with so much potential. The man frowns, pocketing the necklace, and walks away from the ruins to enter his ship, cloaked as it is. As he climbs the ramp, a pod awaits him; beneath its frosted glass lies a body, and it was to this body that the figure mused to himself. It was ironic, the man thought, that so great a warrior’s ignoble death would be the catalyst for such greater battles. With a light scoff, he looks upon the body of Jango Fett, formerly Mandalore the Stabilizer, for a final time. Walking to the main console, his ship then, to the outsider, materializes as its cloaking deactivates, being no more than a few paces from the entrance.

The cryogenic storage pod hides itself in the bottom of the vessel, the floor sliding to cover it. A deep breath exits the figure’s nose as he takes his seat in the cockpit, lowering his hood in the process. Gloved fingers massage the base of vestigial horns in habit and stress-relief before they find the button for a small holo-projector. The engines start up as the call goes through.

“What is weapon and word alike in its violence?” comes an enigmatic voice.

“Maul,” the zabrak says, half in sarcasm, “It is I, master, no riddles required. I am ready to depart Mandalore.”

“Well young padawan, forgive a paranoid man his habits. Now, my eager red friend, I require you to deliver the objective to a vessel awaiting you just within the sector limits.”

“Understood, master. But do you have news? On the Sith sent here?”

“Yes, which is why I need you to go to the Arkanis Sector after your delivery.”

“Is there a reason for this, master?”

“There is a reason for everything, padawan, such is the Force. However, in particular, through the Force and a few searches into Hutt monetary records, I have discovered that a ship matching the Clone One’s description has landed on a desert world known as Tatooine but a few hours ago. Deliver to the vessel, and then begin your search for the Sith. They and the Fett girl are a threat to balance; while we may be able to use them, their removal from the cosmos is a far more useful fate.”

“I understand, master. I will not fail. Not with the Light to guide me.”

“May the Force be with you, Khameir Sarin.”

“And with you, Master Palpatine.”

  
**|-o-|**

  
A left, a right, and another left, as Anakin, caught again in a trance of the light, lays into the small twi’lek man before him. Pulling him by his lekku, Anakin cares not for the potential brain damage as he throws the sentient against the stone of the arena’s walls. The snapping of his neck is instantaneous.

Cheering, the crowd begins to whistle, all unaware of the young boy’s nausea as once again feels his emotions return to him. All that is, but Darth Niisen, frowning as he feels the boy’s Force presence surge to the Light Side in both fights, only to darken as he sees the aftermath of his actions. The boy was Sith’ari, there was no doubt, but his years without training had left him misguided.

Next to the Sith, Jar-jar Bissk collects notes from gamblers around him, and Padmé only watches without expression. Inside, she feels a maelstrom of emotions. Who was this boy? So young, and yet so deadly… But how then had he never won a fight before? Had he never had a cause to fight for? That must be it, she thinks, the boy must have never had a reason to win, never had to fight for his freedom. And once again, the two were not so different; here she was, betting on slave fights, sitting next to a Hutt, to ensure her people’s freedom. “One more fight,” she whispers, and she wonders just what will be thrown at Anakin next.

The crowd goes silent once more as an announcer rises. “Young Feral was only a few years older than little Ani here, and ol’ Cho’ma, while a seasoned fighter, was getting on in years. So then...let’s give the human a challenge! Someone in there prime! From the darkest pits of the galaxy…from a world far far away…from an era long past…you know her…you love her! It’s…Alorana!” the rodian shouts, and the spectators go wild, cheering and thundering as they stomp their feet. The announcer continues as the arena’s entry way is cleared. “Now remember folks, despite the legends, Alorana ain’t no force-user. However, she is a bloodthirsty killing machine that’s been undefeated in death matches, and nearly undefeated in regular matches. And there she is! The Blind Bloodmaiden!”

A cloud of dust obscures everyone’s vision of the figure that jumps into the pit. Anakin feels a small shiver of fear, unsure what grotesque beast will step out. As the dirt settles back to the ground, “Alorana” is revealed; a pale, scrawny teenage girl, with a strange blindfold made of cloth, metal, and bone. As Anakin relaxes, scoffing a bit, Darth Niisen feels his breath catch in his throat. “Miraluka…” he whispers, shocked and awed. And that’s when the fight begins.

She strikes like lightning, dashing forward and catching Anakin off guard with her speed. His lip splits as her fist makes contact. Reeling, the boy jumps back, and goes for his retaliatory strike, only to be rebuffed at every step. Alorana lifts her leg and push kicks him in the gut sending the human flying back. Scrambling up before she can hit him again, Anakin tries to do as Falzin taught, but the Light eluded him as pain and frustration flowed through him.

The miraluka cocks her head as they begin to circle each other. “I thought you faded and weak,” she says, voice too filled with wisdom and experience for one her age, “but I was wrong. You are...potent. But conflicted. Between becoming a shining beacon...and becoming an endless abyss. No...you are not weak in yourself. But your indecision is your weakness!” With a roar, she charges, and Anakin, confused by her words, is too late to react: he hits the wall of the arena with a thud, the check to his small form sending him sailing through the air.

Coughing, blood drips from his mouth, and Anakin struggles to rise. The crowd begins their chant. “Kill! Him! Kill! Him! Kill! Him! Kill! Him!” they go, on and on. Alorana takes the moment to savor the energy of the room, laughing as she holds out her arms and basks in the bloodlust and frenzy. As Anakin feels his mind growing dim, there is suddenly peculiar sensation in his mind. A chill, a cold feeling as a tendril of darkness seems to prod his consciousness before sliding in, coiling itself into his psyche. Despite the feeling of violation, a friendliness seems to come from the thing, and Anakin stops resisting. The voice of Niisen soon fills his mind.

“Anakin!” he tells the boy, “You must get up!”

“I can’t…” comes the muttered reply, “It all hurts too much. I can’t resist it…”

“Don’t resist it! Focus on the pain! On the rage towards who gave you that pain! Let it feed you! Spur you on! Give in to the hate! Let it guide you! Let—”

The mental speech is interrupted as the blind girl delivers punch to Anakin’s face, followed by another and another. But the boy listens to the words, and does not try to ignore the pain. He feels it, and follows it to the building reservoir of anger within him, to the despair for his defeat. Where once the Light waited, asking for his woes as a means of healing, there now loomed the Dark, demanding the same as tribute for its power. And power was what Anakin needed.

Alorana goes for another strike, only to receive a kick to her gut that causes her to stumble backwards. She looks then upon the boy’s force signature as he slowly rises. Where once stood an ever shifting grey form, there is now a void, an absence of all color and light. Though she had seen his potential power, even she had not truly imagined what it would look like. Alorana steps back in fear, the crowd becoming confused. One question seems to crawl into everyone’s mouth: “Were his eyes always yellow?”

  
**|-o-|**

  
Taking a deep breath, Darth Diadeem hesitates at the door before him. A snicker comes from behind him as he does.

“Afraid of younglings, you are? Kekekeke!” the small creature says, gripping her gimmer stick as she mocks the tall human Sith. Said human looks behind him, frowning.

“Creche master, you understand I am a full Sith, do you not?”

“Hmmm...I do, yes. And understand, you do, that seen centuries of Sith come and pass, I have? And that in this part of the temple, master I am?”

“I…yes, Master Yaddle. I understand,” the Sith Chevalier says, dipping his head in shame and respect. Yaddle smiles warmly as she chuckles to herself.

Incapable of being ruthless and devoting herself to darkness, she instead chose to become a creche master, raising up younglings as Sith, a task suited for those who understood the Dark Side, but did not let anger and frustration guide them. Yaddle doubted any of the children would be alive if that were the case.

“Come, Darth Diadeem, kneel,” she says warmly, and the man does after a moment of hesitation. Still smiling, she cracks him on the head with her gimmer stick. As he recoils away, she gives a satisfied sound. “Now fully forgiven, you are.”

“I thought creche masters were supposed to be kind…”

“Cruel, you wish me to be, young Sith?”

“No, master.”

“Good. Now come. Seek a wise pupil, you do. Observe lessons, and which youngling that is, you will see.” She gestures to the door, opening it as the chevalier rises, raising his hood to hide the red mark on his forehead he knew the children would recognize all too well.

As the pair enter the room, the find it in chaos, younglings of the ages of ten to fourteen standard years are all laughing and giggling as they run about, most cheering on a fight, as a young girl is punching a young boy, the electrical sear mark on her pants being a clear indication of why. Chuckling again, Yaddle looks at the Sith. “Right you were, to be afraid. Kekekeke.”

With a tap of her gimmer stick on the cool tile, the younglings suddenly snap to attention, all finding their seats on the various meditation mats. The girl and boy from the fight sit a row apart, glaring at each other. Or rather, the girl glared, and the boy snickered. Yaddle shakes her head. “Acolyte Masana, suggest you use your anger to focus, I do. Acolyte Eris, save flirting for after class, you should.” The group chortles and the boy blushes deeply. “Now then...a guest, we have. Darth Diadeem, looking for an apprentice, he is. Observe class, he will.”

The Sith settles to stand against the wall, next to where Yaddle hobbles to, a large holoprojector to her right. “Easy lesson, today will be. Review over history of the Interstellar Commonwealth. Tell me what event ended the Galactic Republic and Sith Empire, who can?” Yaddle asks, and an acolyte raises his hand. With a motion of her gimmer stick, the boy speaks, “The invasion of the Eternal Empire?”

“Correct, Moren. And with its fall, what comes next?”

“Uhm…”

“The Conference of the Remnants!” comes a cheery voice in the back. Diadeem turns his gaze, and a young cathar girl smiles brightly. Her fur is nearly white in its golden hue, with only a few yellow-brown stripes and spots on her face.

Yaddle chuckles. “Good, Vikeera. But spoken out of turn, you have.”

“Sorry, Master Yaddle…”

“Forgiveness is earned, youngling. Through punishment, most often." Yaddle looks at Diadeem with a smirk. "Explain more, you shall. Then perhaps, apologies will be accepted.”

“Yes, Master Yaddle…The Conference of Remnants was the meeting of the remnants of the Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire. The leaders were Chancellor Vanara Kayl and Emperor Kallig—”

“Emperor, hmm?”

“Sorry, Master Yaddle. Officially Darth Nox. The title of Emperor was given posthumously. He negotiated the uniting of the destroyed governments into one unit. The Jedi were nearly extinct, the Senate destroyed. And the Sith Lords were few, the Dark Council nearly gone aside from Nox, the Emperor’s Fury, and a handful of war-time promoted apprentices. An agreement was reached; the nations would be combined. Systems could have whatever government, and the various warlord states controlling major worlds were already ruling Sectors. Their delegates represented them at the Conference and this became the basis for the Commonwealth. The Sith would guard the nation, being granted political immunity and wealth, as well as having a Sith be the Emperor. The Jedi disapproved, but that’s different history. The Arch Premier is the replacement for the Chancellor, selected by the Emperor and confirmed by the Delegation. This was all established in the _Charter for an Interstellar Commonwealth._ ”

Yaddle smirks. “Well done girl. And an Emperor, we no longer have. Why?”

“Emperor Kaan saved the Delegation from the returning Jedi, and he was declared the final Emperor, Sith now servants of the Commonwealth.”

“Why?” the creche master presses.

“They say it is to honor his sacrifice as the final protector of the Commonwealth, as the defeater of the Jedi.”

“Hmmmm…Skeptical, you seem.”

“In truth it removed the Sith from government, granting the Delegation and the Arch Premier more power, and isolating the Sith from the political sphere.”

Now Yaddle merely laughed, turning to Darth Diadeem. “Well? Wise beyond her years, is she not? Yes. Lesson ending early, I think. Free time, acolytes, you have. Except Vikeera. Stay after, you shall.” With a tap of her gimmer stick, the issue is final. And as the class files out, there was one idea that whispered throughout the group: “Vikeera’s going to be an apprentice."

The girl in question walks up to the front of the room, right up to the Sith Chevalier. “So! Are they right? Am I your apprentice, now?”

The Sith shakes his head and chuckles. “Not yet, but with your confidence, you are in the running. My master would certainly approve of you. Vikeera, right? That’s your name?”

“Mmhm. What’s your name?”

“I am Darth Diadeem.”

“No, no. You’re real name. Sith names are for the Order and for strangers. If I’m you’re apprentice, I want to know your name,” Vikeera says, in a sure and determined tone.

Chuckling, the man responds. “Well then, my young apprentice—or rather soon to be apprentice _if_ you accomplish my trails—you can call me Xanatos.”

  
**|-o-|**

  
Anakin looks around the arena for but a moment, eyes sulfuric, before he focuses on the opponent before him. The miraluka begins to lose her fear, and gains a fighting stance. “I will still best you, human. You’re still conflicted, there is still a glimmer of light in you. Worry not. I will bring you peace.”

At that, Anakin pauses. A feeling takes him, and in the vision of Alorana she sees not a boy, but a hulking visage, a dark knight with a face like a skull. And as he approaches the girl, slowly and calmly, even the crowd can feel the power emanating off the boy. “Peace?” comes his voice, far too loud and booming, “Peace is a lie.”

Alorana, once again afeared, takes a wild swing once Anakin is close enough, but it is quickly caught, and there is a loud pop, sickening and painful, as he squeezes her wrist. “There is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength.” He hits her in the gut, forcing Alorana to drop to her knees. “Through strength, I gain power.” A strike to her face, followed by another, knocking off her blindfold to reveal empty eye sockets. “Through power, I gain victory.” A third strike, and Alorana falls to the floor completely.

Anakin kneels beside her, hand on her throat. “Through victory…” Suddenly he picks her up, lifting her into the air, almost too short to get her feet off the ground. “My chains are broken!” He closes his hand, tighter and tighter. “The Force shall free me!” And a crack resounds, and Alorana’s lifeless body hangs in the young child’s grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that! It was good to get into the swing of things again, and I'll be trying to write more often.


	7. Free from Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a final challenge, our heroes leave Tatooine and make their way to Coruscant, the thriving hub of the Commonwealth.

“It’s over! The fight is over! The mysterious and strange human has won!” the announcer declares enthusiastically, quickly gathering a heaping stack of smuggler’s notes from betters around. Gardulla gives a roar of anger and petulance, thrashing her small and stubby arms about, her tail killing a servant with a harsh whack to the neck. Many spectators simply cheer and others throwing money to the ground and stomp away.

But amidst the cacophony of noises, Anakin simply let go of the body, and quickly scrambled away, terror coating his expression. Unable to look upon the girl’s corpse, he instead looks at his hands, looking at them the way one would a bloody knife or a hot blaster. Few notice him, too busy celebrating or sulking, but Padmé and Niisen both take notice, but it is the former who leaps over the rails and into the pit. She looks at Anakin and approaches slowly, calmly, and with only the slightest frown.

She knows the expression he carries, understands it. The adrenaline and fear now gone, there was nothing to cushion Anakin’s mind from his actions, and the end of the last fight had been disturbing enough to the spectators, let alone the boy himself. She had felt much the same as she had sat there in the killing field of Mandalore’s palace. She grieved her family, but she had also been made to face the bloodlust and cruelty she herself had felt. And so Padmé, Darth Niisen a few paces behind her, knelt and hugged the small child, constantly trying not to think of him as the hulking figure she swore she had seen for a split second before he killed the miraluka.

The Sith Chevalier, on his part, understood that the fight was traumatic, but unlike the Mandalorian princess, Niisen stood tall, looming over the boy, before extending out a hand. “Well done, boy,” he said warmly, “Now let’s go. You’re free.”

The fear in Anakin’s eyes begs to differ. “You’re...you’re going to make me a Sith, right?” comes his shaky response.

“Yes, yes, that’s right.”

“A-a-a-and what I did...that was Sith power?”

“...Yes it was.”

“Then I can’t go with you...I can’t do something like that again.”

“Anakin, what are you—”

“What I did was...it was evil and cruel and...and bad!” he cries, his young mind failing to grant him a proper word to convey his feelings. Beside him, Padmé says nothing, but gives Niisen a pointed look thats says, “Do something!”

Clearing his throat and pausing to formulate his thoughts, the Sith puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder before speaking. “Anakin...Anakin look at me,” he begins, and once the now freed slave does, the Dark Lord continues, “Any and all power can be used for good or for evil. The Sith use darkness for good, but it takes practice. One must gain mastery over their emotions, using them as tools. Fearing your power, your feelings...that is the path to ruin. And your power Anakin...it’s immeasurable. You will be a great Sith...if you wish to be.”

At that, the boy becomes confused. “You mean...you’ll let me choose not to?”

“Of course! Anakin...you’re free now! You’re not a slave any longer, you are free to choose your own path. But you would do well to remember that without your power, without the victory and strength it gave you, you would not be free. Those words you spoke during the fight...that is the Sith Code, and every word of it is true. You’re free Anakin, as free as any normal being. But if you choose, choose of your own volition, to become a Sith, then you will become more powerful than anyone and freer than anyone. Right now, Anakin, you’re free to choose your fate; as a Sith, you will be free from fate. You would hold the reigns of your destiny, not merely a passenger.”

By this point, the crowd has begun to grow quiet, impatiently waiting for the pit to clear for another match to begin. Smirking, Darth Niisen then adds, “No need to choose now, boy. It’s a long flight to Coruscant,” before turning to address Gardulla, Padmé helping the now calmed and introspective Anakin up. “I believe the agreement has been met. Three fights won, to the death. Now then, the boy comes with me, and you’ll accept the lessened price.”

For a moment, Gardulla’s eyes flick to her guards, and Niisen’s hand goes to his lightsaber, but then after a few tense seconds, the Hutt laughs, slapping her hand against her bulbous body in amusement. “Alright Sith, a deal is a deal. Jo’guul! Ring up their part, and have a droid and some guards go out with them to ensure installation; I don’t want to see my own parts floating on the market!”

**|-o-|**

A few minutes later, three humans, one trandoshan, and two gamorreans stand outside the palace of Gardulla the Hutt. From the open gate comes a hovering dolly carrying the hyperdrive, the wookie pushing the device being berated constantly by a BLX labour droid, rusted and covered in hasty repairs of silver paneling that clashed with his base bronze. “Push it more steadily!” comes its gruff voice, “If you make it move too much it could very well become unusable!” The wookie growls angrily, stopping and gesturing to the gamorreans to take control of the dolly before throwing up his hands and walking back inside. Anakin chuckles as the droid quickly begins to gripe about the handling of the equipment by the gamorreans.

“Hey, Threepio,” Anakin says with a smile.

The droid whirls around, “Slave-5191999!” it says with a bit of simulated mirth.

“Haha. It’s Anakin now. Not a slave anymore.”

“Joyous day, free sentient Anakin! Hey! Keep that dolly steady!”

At this, Padmé wanders over. “Anakin? You know this droid?”

The boy grins at this point. “This is BLX-3P0, or Threepio for short. He helps--helped--me out in the shop. And I kept him working whenever the guards used to beat him up… mostly because he gets pretty, uh…”

“Particular?” the girl provides with a smirk glad to see the boy’s recent somber mood broken.

The droid defends itself quickly, “If you want well-working machinery, proper care must be done!”

Both of the humans chuckle at that, and the ensuing minutes spent walking out into the desert are spent snickering at the expense of the gamorreans, who do in fact keep the hyperdrive clean and the dolly fairly steady, but not enough to satisfy the nagging droid.

Niisen looks upon the affair with a feeling of contentment. The _Sith’ari_ was found and free, and he was certain the boy would accept becoming a member of the Order. The ward of Mandalore was in one piece, Jar-jar had learned to be quiet—not to mention the heaps of notes the trandoshan had won—the hyperdrive would be prepared, and his apprentice would likely have bounced back from his punishment when they got back to the ship. As the lightly damaged vessel came into view, the Sith Lord could not help but surmise that his luck was one the uptick.

That was about when he decided to look behind him, and realized he had surmised too soon.

**|-o-|**

Darth Vornskr is not happy. His Chevaliers had not reported in at the agreed time, and while it was likely tardiness on Niisen’s part, the Supreme Lord of the Sith Order could not help but feel that something was wrong.

Sighing, the scarred Korun drags a gloved hand down his face. Niisen was an old friend, and they had known each other since they were still known as Qui-gon Jinn and Mace Windu. Mace had been older, but the two had felt a bond as youths, always chatting in the temple. As a Chevalier and Dark Councilor, the two were often more in conflict than allied, but friends nonetheless. It had been Niisen who had been first at his bedside when he had to lie in healing after besting Darth Rinpoche. It had been Niisen who was the first to acknowledge him as Supreme Lord, ignoring the many in the Order who were angered by his killing of the ancient green creature, despite the verification of the entire Dark Council that Vornskr’s offer of mercy was rejected. And it had been Niisen who gave him kind words at the passing of his apprentice.

It was for these reasons that, despite the Sith’s often unorthodox and outright suicidal tactics, Vornskr had always granted the man leniency, usually by talking down other Councilors when they demanded suspension or even expulsion from the Order. Favoritism though it may be, the Korun Sith felt a duty to look out for the man he had seen as a little brother all those years ago.

Taking a deep breath, the Dark Side came to him, allowing him to see all the passion and power of every being in the galaxy. As usual, it was all Darkness, the worlds protected in its strong and empowering embrace. But as he looked for the force signature of his friend, there came a sudden bright spot, a cold light the pierced the dark in an arrogant declaration of its existence.

Vornskr’s eyes snap open. “Jedi…” he whispers, a feel of dread in his gut.

**|-o-|**

“Run!” Niisen shouts, “Run for the ship!” Unfortunately, the group, confused by his urgency, is slow to respond. Growling in frustration, the Sith grabs the dolly with the Force and shoves it through the sand and up the waiting ramp. Obi-wan at this point was already in the cockpit, starting the engines. He too had felt the burst of light, and his master’s screams were more than enough to let him know a quick getaway was preferable.

The two gamorreans sent by Gardulla gave squeals of protest, and Threepio was doing much the same, when suddenly, a whirling white lightsaber whirled through the air. The two porcine sentients were decapitated, and the droid was bisected at his torso, much to Anakin’s horror.

Following the boomeranging weapon’s path, Anakin settled his gaze on the hooded figure that caught the lengthy handle. He is tall, wearing dark brown on beige robes that made him at times blur with the sand, but his face was easily seen beneath his hood; red, bright red, smooth and without blemish. “Anakin, let’s go!” Padmé then shouts, breaking the boy out of his observation. Nodding, Anakin then does quite the opposite and runs over to Threepio’s body, just as Darth Niisen draws his blade and begins rushing the stranger.

“There’s no time! Anakin, we can’t drag that thing and make it to the ship in one piece!” the girl says, guessing the former slave’s intentions. But Anakin doesn’t move, and says, “I can fix him! Rebuild him! I just need his primarry harddrive.” The Mandalorian looks with concern at the two force users circling each other, but lets the boy keep fiddling with the droid’s head. As orange saber meets white, Anakin rips out a large device. “Okay, I hav—”

Before he can finish, Padmé grabs him, picking the boy up in her arms as she runs for the ship, ascending the ramp that has only just begun to lift off the desert sands.

Darth Niisen remains privy to this, his senses outstretched as he faces a foe he had been taught was long extinct. As such, he had no idea what to expect. The stranger was an excellent duelist, that much could be said, and each thrust Niisen gave was parried perfectly, and it was only the Sith’s defensive style the saved him from the powerful retaliatory strikes of his opponent. It quickly dawns on Niisen that this would be a battle of attrition, the first to weaken becoming the loser.

But he did not have that kind of time. The ship was hovering, waiting for him, but still rising, and would soon be too high for him to jump to. So Niisen waits, waits for the exact moment that the ship starts to leave range, and that is when he dips his lighsaber into the sand, flicking it up to send searing dirt at his foe’s face. As the sentient reals, Niisen gathers the Force and jumps. As he ascends, the Sith extends his arm, and he grabs the ramp of the _Clone I_ with his fingertips. Looking down, he can feel the cool gaze of the attacker lock with his own, despite the distance.

Hauling himself up, Niisen presses the button for the ramp to lift as he walks passed it. Obi-wan stands not much further, a confused and concerned look on his face, his helmet under his arm. Niisen only frowns and gives a short, grim response. “Jedi.”

**|-o-|**

The next few minutes are a strange mix of quiet and hurried, as Obi-wan observes. While the ship was up in the air, the lack of hyperdrive meant that they would only be safe so long as the “Jedi”—for Obi-wan was unsure if such a myth was really what his master had faced—did not become spaceborne himself. It was imperative, then, that the hyperdrive be installed quickly. While Obi-wan isn’t sure how that is going to be achieved, he shelves his worry and decides to focus purely on his own job, namely piloting the _Clone I_ to be safely hidden by the shadow of a nearby moon, and thus gaining more time for the repairs.

Sitting in his seat for a few more minutes, he finally rises and makes his way to the back of the ship, hoping to inquire on the hyperdrive’s progress. As he enters the engine room, he finds his master standing by the entrance as a young boy sits cross-legged in front of the hyperdrive port. All around him, parts float, configuring themselves in the proper place in mid-air. As Obi-wan watches, flabbergasted, the last components of the drive are inserted.

The boy, whom Obi-wan recognizes as being brought onboard by Padmé amidst the fight, drops his hands, panting and sweating. “I…I did it!” he proclaims, exhaustion on his features as his hands, formerly outstretched, drop to his sides.

“Indeed you did,” Niisen says proudly, and his tone catches Obi-wan offguard. Rare was it that he ever received such praise, and now it was being given to some unknown child. A hot and acidic spurt of jealousy grew in the apprentice’s gut, and he embraced it, using it to empower his boldness and allow him to step into the room fully.

“What I want to know is how,” he says, suspiciously looking upon the boy.

Darth Niisen grins, beckoning Anakin as he puts an arm on Obi-wan’s shoulder. “Obi-wan, this is Anakin, a gifted young force user we met on Tatooine. We’re taking him to be trained. Anakin? This is my apprentice, Obi-wan Kenobi.”

Despite his newfound envy for how his master treated the boy, Obi-wan felt his heart soften considerably as he realized that the scared young boy likely barely understood his immense power. At the least, that notion certainly pleased his jealousy, as it meant that Ob-wan was still superior. Holding out his hand, he says, “A pleasure to meet you.”

As their hands connect, a sudden current runs through them, a strange sensation of familiarity that makes both go numb for several moments. When it passes, Obi-wan retracts his hand slowly, unsure at what had just happened.

His ponderings are cut short when his master pats him on the shoulder with excessive force. “Right then! The hyperdrive is repaired. I believe it’s time we made a fast exit to Coruscant. Obi-wan man the helm, I need to contact the Council.”

It was with one quick look the young man confirmed that Anakin too had felt the strange sensation. The boy then shrugs. “You should probably get to flying us out of here. I’m gonna…I’m gonna go lie down, I think,” he says, and slowly walks off towards the cargo bay.

Obi-wan can only nod and frown before he makes his way back to the cockpit. As he inputs the proper codes and eases the vessel into hyperspace, a thought occurs to him. “I never got his last name…”

On nearly the other side of the ship, Darrh Niisen kneels before a holo-projector. After a moment, a Korun appears, and Darth Vornskr gives an unhappy grunt of affirmation rather than a traditional command to rise. Regardless, Niisen stands, but does not crack the smile Vornskr had been awaiting to criticize. “I take it that the…anomaly I felt while searching for you was not a false alarm?”

Niisen shakes his head. “I am aboard the _Clone I_ , my lord. It is the private vessel of the now deceased Mandalore th Preserver.”

“Jango is dead?” Vornskr asks, clearly shocked.

“Yes, my lord. He and his whole family; Satine Kryze-Fett, Myli Fett, Boba Fett, and Sora Fett were all executed by the Alderaanians, who have invaded the planet and are fighting and killing the populace block by block as they slowly conquer. Only one member of Clan Fett remains: Padmé Fett, Jango’s ward and adopted daughter. By her report, a man named Tor Vizsla now stands as Mandalore, but given her royal ties and the status of the planet, we took her with us to have her testify before the Delegation.”

The hologram nods slowly. “A decent plan. If the whole of the Commonwealth intervenes, Alderaan will have to bend knee.”

“Our thinking as well, Supreme Lord. However, we were attacked en route, and our hyperdrive damaged. We were then forced to land on the Hutt-controlled world of Tatooine. After a bit of…haggling that I will go over in more detail in my reports, we gained a new hyperdrive, and freed a young slave boy.”

“I assume this was not simply out of charity?”

“No, my lord. He is strong with the Force…amazingly strong. He is powerful enough to be, in my belief, the—”

“Niisen, I know what word is about to leave your mouth. Let's not debate that legend now. Continue with your report.”

“Yes, Darth Vornskr. As we were entering our ship, I looked behind us and saw…a figure. It was he who let loose the burst of light into the Force, as a warning, or perhaps it’s better said that it was…”

“Boasting.”

“Indeed. And yet, for a creature that boasts…My lord, as we dueled, I kept my senses open. And the sentient I fought…I was almost certain I was fighting a droid, if not, of course, for the living Force signature. But the creature felt nothing. No fear of death, no rush of victory, no anger at pain, nothing! While all other sentients are vessels carrying pools of darkness, of emotion and passions, the thing I fought was but a husk, filled with light as if it were a puppet and the puppeteer.”

There was a long pause on the other end. “You think then that this creature…this emotionless force user was…a Jedi?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“We will…discuss this further when you arrive on Coruscant. Stay safe, Darth Niisen.”

“Of course, Mace.” And with that, the line went dead.

**|-o-|**

Padmé paces nervously in the cargo hull, her armored boots clacking as she does so. After the mess on Tatooine, she had berated herself for not armoring up, and knowing she was to represent her people before the Senate, Padmé went and found her armor, which was kept alongside that of her adoptive parents and elder brother Boba; Myli and Sora had been too young to have armor of their own. It’s shape was the same as the other three sets, in a classic Mandolarian style of the age. Her undersuit was white, the armor painted red and accented with gold. As she had held the T-shaped visor, Padmé could feel the spirits of her adopted ancestors gazing back at her.

Mandalorians had no issue with adoption. Anyone could be a Mandalorian, and anyone could be taken in by any clan. In doing so, you became a part of its history. Its blood was your blood, its legacy was yours. But Padmé could not bring herself to don the helm, and had set it down for the moment.

Behind her, Anakin and Jar-jar were in the midst of a game of pazaak. The trandoshan had thought the slave boy easy pickings, even if they were playing Senate rules, only to find himself at his third straight loss—meaning of course, he had been beaten in nine consecutive rounds. “This…but…how?!” the reptilian demands, confused by the boy’s skill. “You hustled me! You said you never played!”

Anakin simply laughs. “I haven’t! It’s a fun game though. I mean, c’mon, don’t you have a feeling when you should hit or stand?”

“Yes, but your ‘feeling’ is always right! Unfair! Sith magic unfair!”

Anakin only laughs more, before suggesting they try a different card game. However, before Jar-jar can suggest something, for he indeed had come to like the boy even with his constant losses, Padmé heard a ping. More specifically, it was that of her personal communicator. Panicking, she begins searching her person for the device, cursing all of the pockets as she does so.

“Aha!” she declares, and turns on the comm. Even in his full armor, she knew who it was. “Tor!”

“Paddy! Thank the stars you’re alive!” the small hologram says.

“Hold on! Give me just a second. She rushes through the ship, curiosity bringing Jar-jar and Anakin on her heels, before she arrives at holoprojector, where Niisen and Obi-wan stand speaking. Ignoring the looks of the Sith, she plugs her communicator in, and Tor’s hologram grows to life-size proportions. “There!” she says, and then looks around her at her new audience. She then drops to one knee, “Glory to you, Mandalore.”

Tor Vizsla raised a brow and rolls his eyes before saying, “Rise, warrior of Mandalore. Paddy, didn’t we talk about not doing exactly that?”

Padmé, seeming a bit sheepish, shakes her head. “It’s more proper this way.”

He sighs. “Fine, who are your friends, and where the kriff are you?”

“I am Darth Niisen, Sith Chevalier, and this is my apprentice, Obi-wan Kenobi,” Niisen says, bowing.

“Chevalier, huh? Never got why you Sith use fancy Inner Core words.”

At that, Niisen smirks. “Mostly to appease them, honorable Mandalore. Beside me is Anakin, our…mechanic as it were, and next to him is Jar-jar Bissk, a Mandalorian trandoshan who has joined us.”

“Hm…a motley crew. And the part where I learn what happened is…?”

“Now,” Padmé says, “After we last spoke, the Sith found me. We’re en route to Coruscant. We’ve had a bit of trouble, but we’re nearly there. I’m going to go before the Delegation and ask them to intervene. The Alderaanians are all about appearances; this will cripple them quick, force them to retreat.”

“And if this fails?”

“Then the fight goes on unaffected. But this is our best shot, so we might as well try.”

“Alright…I’m sending you our delegate’s comm number on Coruscant. He’s young, but he’s kin. I'd contact him myself, but your ship is the only one we've been able to contact, and that was theough your diredt comm, Paddy. I think the Aldies are blocking transmissions.”

“I’ll brief him before we arrive. How…how are things planetside?”

“We’re fighting, but many have gone underground, building up strength before we retaliate en mass. It’s been hard…but not the hardest war Mandalore’s ever seen. But…we won’t be able to keep this up long. Gather your politicians or send me an army. That’s the only way out of this.”

“That’s…I’ll do my best.”

“Good luck, Paddy.”

“And to you. Glory to Mandalore.”

“Glory to Mandalore.”

**|-o-|**

The flight to Coruscant is quickly finished, and the group descends the ramp of their ship directly before the Delegation Chambers. As they do, Anakin goes wide-eyed ashis gaze goes about the Coruscanti skyline. “Wow…and I thought Mos Eisley was big…”

Waiting for them are two men dressed in the standard purple garb of delegates. One is bulkier, with a shaved head and a youthful face. The other is far older, with a frailness to him, but alongside that is a certain elder kindness.

Padmé approaches them, helm under her arm, with cool confidence. “Delegate Pre Vizsla?” she asks, recognizing the bulkier man from her earlier holocall. The man smiles, and Anakin immediately decides he doesn’t like him.

“Lady Fett, once again my deepest condolences. Trust me when I say we will gain justice for Mandalore. Now then, this is my good friend, and our ally here in the Delegation, Delegate Sheev Palpatine, Speaker for Naboo and the Chommel Sector.”

Padmé stiffens up at the man’s surname, and she is immediately grateful that she is in armor and not a dress. The House of Palpatine was a large one, and she doubted the man before her had any direct involvement in her family’s murder, but part of her could not help but wonder. “I am surprised that Naboo is in such immediate support of us. As a nominally conservative system, I would have expected you to side with Alderaan.”

Palpatine smiles warmly before responding. “Naboo and all its subjects in Chommel are a peaceful nation. The actions of the Alderaanians, be that blockade that threatens invasion or a murderous invasion, are ones that we will never truly support, not when diplomacy remains an option.” As he spoke, Padmé could not help but believe him. Still, part of her raged to show defiance before the man who bore the name of her first kinslayers.

“So you would’ve ‘diplomatically’ shunned Mandalore into being a system without representation then?”

At this the older man gives a haughty laugh. “Ah quite a sharp tongue you have there. You truly are from Naboo, aren’t you?”

Padmé can only grind her jaw a bit, and Pre steps in before anything else can transpire. “Well, I think it’s best I bring you up to speed, milady. Arch Premier Valorum notified all Delegates that an emergency meeting might be needed, and all major Sector Sovereigns were found to approve in some capacity. After you contacted me, I contacted the Premier. The session has been called, but we have a few hours before everyone arrives. I suggest we take that time to strategize with our allies on what to do, how to proceed, and see what we can do about any naysayers. Odds are good that some ask for Alderaanian demands to be met, or that Mandalore agree to lessened system rights. I believe we can counter with a humanitarian plea, and if that fails, we could bluff and threaten to pull our system and all allied systems out of the Commonwealth completely. If they believe us, that would mean they risk a huge loss in trade and revenue by not aiding us. Galactic economy in ruins. And— Well we can talk more in my suite.”

As the man finishes his delivery, Padmé finds herself impressed, realizing that the man’s position was certainly earned in full capacity. Her feelings were shown on her face, and that only made Anakin dislike Pre further. Darth Niisen speaks, breaking the boy’s envious thoughts.“If that is the case, then I believe it best that we Sith journey to the Stronghold and report in. We will return here when our testimony is required.”

The armored man then kneels to be closer to Anakin’s height. “Now, Anakin…have you decided?”

There was a pregnant pause as the boy licks his lips. Niisen and Padmé seem to appear supportive, Obi-wan impatient, Pre intrigued, and Palpatine outright curious to hear his answer, already guessing the question. With one last gaze to Padmé, Anakin nods. “I’ll go with you. I’ll become the greatest Sith who ever lived. I’ll be free, truly free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this one. Feels a bit like filler, and that's why I just kept adding on to it. Still, we're getting towards more exciting bits, so it was necesarry.
> 
> As always, comments spur me on like crazy! I've been getting kudos, but a nice review is what really helps!


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